Like I said in my previous post, I injured my hamstring while playing paintball recently, and now I’m stuck with a bum leg and a wicked limp for the next month and a half. Tonight while sorting my laundry, I pulled my paintball jersey out of the pile of clean clothing, and I put it on just for fun. As you might already know, I’m the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. I make it known when I feel something deeply enough. Tonight, as I stood there wearing my paintball jersey in the center of my modest living room, I felt something, and I simply had to let it out. Strictly as a matter of unfortunate coincidence, Diana happened to be there, too.

Kevin: Oh, Paintball. I love you so much, even when you hurt me. [grunting and wincing] Ah, it hurts when I try to stretch out my leg. I’d do it for you, though, Paintball. I’d stretch out my leg if you asked me to.

Diana: Shut the hell up. I’m trying to read.

Kevin: I’m not talking to you, Diana. I’m talking to Paintball. Where were we, Paintball? Oh yeah, I love you, Paintball. You would never hurt me as badly as Diana would. I would give you the sun, the moon, the stars, and the muscles and tendons attached to the posterior of my femur.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin with a water bottle, which is primarily used to discipline our cats]

Kevin: Hey, what the hell? What did I do to you?

Diana: I’m trying to read.

Kevin: And I’m trying to love Paintball. We all have problems.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin in the face]

Kevin: You see what I have to put up with, Paintball? At least you fight with honor. You would never shoot an unarmed man in the face — especially an unarmed man who is injured, and who’s not wearing a mask. Some people just don’t understand the “blind man” rule. You understand though, Paintball.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin in the face...repeatedly] I hate you so much sometimes.

Kevin: I can’t even place my faith in the woman I love anymore. You’re all I’ve got, Paintball. Don’t ever change.

Diana: Jesus Christ. You win. I’m going to the other room.

Kevin: Sorry, what was that, Diana? I was talking to Paintball.

Lately, it seems like a lot of my conversations with Diana end with her leaving the room. That’s weird. I wonder what Paintball would have to say about that. Or hell, I don’t know. Maybe I should just ask Helen Hunt instead.

Four to six more weeks to go. That may not seem like a long time to some people, but it’s ages in KZ time. I need you, Paintball. I don’t cope very well when I’m confronted with boredom. I wonder if that comes across at all in my writing.